Like Bridget Jones, except gay, more hopeless, and an even bigger ass.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

"At least they covered Mother Teresa's nipples . . ."

Inaugural entry!

As I sipped on my fourth vodka tonic within the dark cavern that is the back lounge at Aroma, more than one person mentioned that I should have an online journal (dare I say blog) to chronicle my forthcoming adventures in New York. Already I had my "Dairy of a Nomad" on Guardian Talk to span the month and a half that I was without permanent residence. So it seemed like a natural progression.

"In the beginning . . ."

Four days shy of my twenty-sixth birthday, I moved from Washington DC to an industrial (ie: slightly dodgy) section of East Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The large draw of this locale, apart from the wonton factory across the street, was the cheap rent and spacious loft. Why would I move from Washington and leave my job of four years to move to a dodgy section of Brooklyn? Good question.